


Bandom One Shot POV... Things

by Sunset_In_My_Veins



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: (just warning for it eventually down the track), Angst, Depression, OD, So much angst, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-04 00:10:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15829755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunset_In_My_Veins/pseuds/Sunset_In_My_Veins
Summary: Trying something a little different from what I normally do, something less sarcastic humour and romance and more serious/angsty. I felt like exploring various character traits I found interesting, and thought a good way to do that would be to write a random one-shot sorta thing about various band members, from their point of view. Also I felt like using various lyrics as dialogue puns/story points... I possibly used too many.As of yet I've only written about a couple of members of Fall Out Boy but I also have intentions of writing about Panic! At the Disco and potentially maybe others. But there are definitely 2-3 more Panic! ones on the cards, one day in the distant future.





	1. Grand Theft Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> Want some totally irrelevant songs to listen to while reading this?
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZb_mqH2zJY
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MbrUzJlTffs

“Pete, that’s the third time this week you’ve missed practice.” Patrick grumbled into his phone as the bassist apologised.

“I know, I _know_ , but I really can’t make it. On an unrelated note: are you doing anything tonight?” Pete’s voice crackled through the phone.

“What? You know I’m not, you literally _just_ cancelled on us.” He answered with frustration.

“Awesome, there’s a party tonight down the road from me and I want you to come.”

Patrick took a long pause, trying to compose himself before outright throwing his phone at the wall. “Pete… are you telling me… that you cancelled on band practice tonight so that you could go to a party?”

“So that _we_ could go to a party.” He clarified.

“PETE!”

“’Trick, you’ve done nothing but work since we got signed; you can’t stay holed up in that studio forever. I think it would do you good to get out.”

“WELL I’VE GOT NOTHING BETTER TO DO NOW, DO I?” He shouted back.

“Good. Then I’ll meet you at mine at 8.” Pete answered calmly as the line went dead.

 

Patrick knew being angry would get him nowhere, and to be honest he didn’t mind the idea of going to a party. Truth be told, the reason he had busied himself with work was so that he didn’t have to be left alone in his own head for too long, so he’d rather go to a party than be left alone in his empty apartment.  Ever since they got back to Chicago after their first tour things hadn’t felt right, and he was pretty sure he knew why. He just wasn’t ready to have to face the facts yet. So, he didn’t.

He cleaned himself up, neatened his sideburns, and tried to look his best for this party. Everyone in town knew who they were now, and this was the first time he’d be seen since they returned. They weren’t just those annoying kids who hand out fliers for their 3am, dingy bar gigs on street corners anymore, now they were _signed_. They were attached to a big-name label now, and even if the four of them didn’t feel like anything had changed, it seemed to everyone else that it had. He adjusted the cap on his head, taking one last look in the mirror before starting the walk to Pete’s house. It wasn’t a short walk, but the Autumn air didn’t quite have that Winter-y bite to it yet.

 

When he arrived, the bassist was impatiently waiting on his front porch, car keys in hand.

“Where have you _been_?”

Patrick checked his watch in confusion. “It’s only 7:30?” He asked as Pete grabbed his shoulder and all but shoved him into the car. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s the rush?” He asked as his friend climbed into the driver’s seat.

“They cracked the keg over an hour ago.” The older man grumbled as he fumbled with his keys.

“Okay? We don’t drink?” Patrick questioned as the car struggled to bring itself to life.  

“You three might not, but I do.” He answered with a roll of his eyes. The party wasn’t far from Pete’s house and Patrick was not entirely sure why he had wanted to drive. With how much time Pete spent trying to get the car working, they probably could’ve walked and gotten here in much the same time. They exited the car and stood on the front lawn, taking in the scene before them. According to Pete the party had already been going for over an hour, but it looked like maybe it had been longer than that. The heavy sound of the bass on a stereo turned up way too loud could be heard coming from the front of the house, various screams and loud laughter could be heard from the backyard, and a kid was already passed out next to the front door next to what Patrick hoped was their own vomit.

“All right, so should we-” Patrick turned to ask, only to see that Pete was gone. He let out a frustrated sigh. “Typical.”

 

He pushed his way through the crowd of people until he found the kitchen, the hub of every party that was ever held. Searching through fridges and pantries, he aimed to find something non-alcoholic that he could drink. After shoving a couple who were making out on the bench top out of his way, he was finally able to retrieve a mixer that someone had left unattended and claim it as his own. He made his way into the backyard, seeing Pete standing next to the keg on the back porch, talking to some girl. She seemed his type. Patrick figured he probably wasn’t getting a lift home. There was an above ground pool at the back of the grass, and too many people were already crammed into it. Probably more than what they advised was maximum capacity on the warning labels. But as the guitarist had learned from his career in music, alcohol can make people do some impressive things. Like fit thirty people into a pool that should hold ten. Nobody had recognised him yet. Which he was perfectly fine with, if it stayed that way it was his excuse to begin the walk home early before he had to watch his bassist drunkenly make out with yet another fan. As he began making his way back into the house a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Patrick!” Andy grinned at him.

“Hey, man! What are you doing here?” He asked as he spun around to face him.

“Got dragged here by a friend.” He shrugged casually. “You?”

“Same. Except that friend was Pete.” He huffed.

“He gave up band practice for _this_?” Andy asked as he looked around, feeling incredibly out of place.

“More specifically for _that_.” Patrick replied as he gestured to the girl standing next to Pete.

“Ah, yes… Our Pete was never one to shy away from a good time.” He noted. “C’mon, we don’t have to watch that.” He said he led Patrick back through the house.

 

They weaved through the party-goers until they found a quiet corner in the house to sit down.

“So how have you been? I haven’t seen you outside of practice.” Andy noted as he took a swig from the cup in his hand. Patrick had offered to share his secret stash of unattended soda that he’d found in the kitchen after noticing that the drummer didn’t have anything to drink either.

“Yeah, fine.” He said instinctively. Andy waited for him to continue. “What?” Patrick asked with a frown.

“Are you sure? You’ve never been quite this invested in your work. Someone might think you were… avoiding something.” He shrugged, trying to not come off as prying for information.

“I…” Patrick sighed deeply before glancing around the room, seeing nobody he recognised. “I haven’t been keen on coming home.” He admitted as he started into the contents of his cup.

“Why? You’re no Pete, you love Chicago.”

“Chicago, maybe, certain people though…” He trailed off.  As if on cue, a familiar voice suddenly ran through the air, dragging his eyes to the top of the staircase. All his efforts came crashing down around him, all his time avoiding people in his room, all the hours poured into the studio in the week they’d been back. Because there she stood, her hair falling around her shoulders, her bright eyes sparkling in that same way he’d never shake from his memory, and just as he had feared, with some strangers’ arm wrapped protectively around her waist. “Fuck.” He muttered under his breath as his eyes shot back to the floor, hoping she hadn’t noticed him. Andy had pieced together what was wrong at this point, but he knew there wasn’t much he could do.

“’Trick, you’re better than that shit. You deserve better.” The drummer tried to reassure, but he didn’t hear anything over the racing of his pulse in his ears.

“Patrick!” He heard her voice call, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He couldn’t deal with this, not now. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to come home to this. He pushed past Andy and deliberately made himself lost in the crowd, shoving his way past people. The air in the house suddenly felt suffocating, and he needed much more distance than what this room allowed. He finally made it outside, looking around in a panic for his friend.

 

“Pete.” He said as he approached the half-drunk bassist.

“Mm?” He mumbled without tearing his attention away from the girl batting her eyelashes at him.

“PETE.” He repeated louder, finally getting him to turn around.

“What?” He asked in frustration.

“I need your car keys.” He said as he reached into his friend’s jacket pocket.

“What? Why? I need them!” He answered as he pushed Patrick back from him.

“No, you don’t; you can walk home. I need to leave.”

“Why?”

“I just do, okay? Just give me your damn keys.” He answered through gritted teeth, holding his hand out expectantly. Pete didn’t budge, he only stared back, eyelids drooping slightly under the influence of the alcohol. “Argh! You drag me to this party and now you’re gonna make me suffer because of it? Fine!” He trudged off into the night, wrapping his jacket tightly around himself and making his way home.

 

Unfortunately for him, his plan was not as clever as he had hoped it might be. As he came around the side of the house into the front yard he stopped a few inches short of slamming into someone, only to find it was exactly who he didn’t want it to be. His face fell as their eyes met and his stomach fell to the floor. He wanted to disappear.

“Patrick, I thought you might be here tonight! I missed you!” She said happily as she pulled him into a tight hug. He didn’t hug back, but that didn’t stop the scent of her familiar brand of shampoo washing over him, making him feel sick.

“I was just-” He started as he tried to look anywhere but at her.

“How was the tour? Your new album sounds great!” She questioned, standing far too close for comfort.

“It was… fine.” He swallowed hard, finally daring to look at her properly. He hadn’t seen her in months now, but that hadn’t changed a thing. She still looked the same, still looked at him with that same smile on her lips, and still made the butterflies in his stomach do somersaults. He hated it. At the start things had been great, hell, at the start he was pretty sure his feelings were reciprocated. But gradually it became apparent that her affection was just empty words said to make him feel better. All she offered him was pity while she went off and dated other guys, told him about how she worried for her future with them. Why wasn’t he worth that? When was he going to appreciate in value enough to be considered an option? If that’s what she needed, he could be that. If she’d give him the chance. “Where is your boy?” He asked, waiting anxiously for the guy to round the corner and punch him in the face.

“Ryan? He was here a minute ago.” She said as she turned to look behind her. As soon as she took her eyes off of him he was able to compose his thoughts, and took the opportunity to escape.

“I hope he is a gentleman.” He grumbled bitterly under his breath as he walked away quickly, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

 

“Wait! ‘Trick!” She shouted as she tried to catch up to him. He shuddered at the use of the nickname only she called him, it forced him to slow his pace. “What’s wrong?” She asked from behind him.

“You! You are what’s wrong!” He spat back, venom lacing his tone. He stood there in the cold, waiting for her to catch up, but she had stopped a few feet behind him. He spun to face her, seeing the look of confusion on her face. “You were all I wanted in this damn town, you know that? The record deal, the album, the fans, it meant _nothing_ compared to what that would’ve. What _we_ would’ve. And I feel like I’m the only person here who knows that.” He explained, taking a few angry steps towards her.  

“Patrick, I-”

“No! I’m not done talking. Do you realise how many nights I’ve spent awake mulling over crap you’ve said to me? Over the ‘I miss you’s? Bullshit you fucking miss me. You never try to call when I’m on tour. Remember all those nights when I told you I loved you? And you’d ‘never forget it’? Well… forget it.” He let the words hang in the air, staring down at the concrete between them. It took a long time before she decided to speak.

“I’m sorry, ‘Trick. I didn’t realise.” He stood there looking at her like she’d just said pigs could fly. She _didn’t realise_?

“Well at least I’m still fucking trying! That’s more than I can say for the majority of the notches in your bedpost. Or… I _was_ trying.” She looked back at him, looking hurt in the cold. “I’m done.” He said, watching her face fall. She tried to reach for his shoulder but he quickly shrugged it off, turning to walk home. Andy was right; he was better than this. He never thought he’d see the day that he finally walked away. But tonight, he appreciated in value.


	2. Ativan Halen - Pete Wentz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other side of the coin that we started last week. Fair warning, this one does get darker, looks into Pete's attempted suicide by OD on Ativan. Heavily inspired by binge-ing TTTYG and reading Gray, and lightly inspired by [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers) great work on We're Friends When You're On Your Knees.
> 
> Want some totally irrelevant songs to listen to while reading this? 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55Sl4DRq3GA
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVPeMQBdkKg
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IW44bkHON8c
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4wYPVQOcE0
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6zynsj_u0E4
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x7AUa-d3I7k
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=axBnv-bTgxA

Their bus slowly drove past the familiar piece of metal that signed the entrance to their tiny town in Chicago. The red that it was once brightly splattered with was now fading into a dark maroon and cracking at the sides. Pete couldn’t help but feel like it looked like blood that had been spilled years ago, dried onto something that used to have so much life and promise. A fitting sign for a fitting town. He tore his thoughts away from the sign as they pulled up at the studio. The only place they could afford when they were recording their EP was right on the outskirts of town. They had built it far enough away from the rest of the population to not bother them with the shitty music of the bands who could afford to record there, but not afford to record somewhere better. But that was all going to change soon; they’d been noticed on tour. They were being flown out to LA in a month to record at a proper studio, the studio that Van Halen had recorded at, they were big shots now. The thought of being on a plane terrified Pete, but he shoved those thoughts to the back of his mind. A record deal meant that they had  _money_. No more sleeping on strangers’ floors, no more two-minute noodles to scrape by until someone liked their set enough to give them a decent meal, and most importantly for Pete, no more notebooks that have been filled in so much that he can barely read what he wrote. The thought of a brand-new notebook was enough to get Pete through the prospect of having to deal with the stress of writing and recording another album.

“Out.” The driver said, suddenly appearing in Pete’s field of view. They had noticed in their cross-country tour that he wasn’t exactly the friendliest person they had met, but by now he’d had more than enough of the rowdy band that forced him to come pick them up at 3am. He looked around the bus to see that his bandmates had already left.

 

He stepped off the bus into the dense Autumn air; the lack of stars in the night sky gave him the feeling that they were probably due for some rain soon. Good, he could blame the weather for his bad moods rather than having to admit to anyone who asks that it’s just him. He saw that Patrick’s beaten up blue car was still parked in the lot for the studio. Why would he still be here? Pete assumed he would’ve gone home to see his family without hesitation. Maybe he could give him a lift home. He’d sold his own car before going on tour, thinking the thing wouldn’t survive the summer heat sitting in that parking lot anyway. Pushing through the heavy wooden door of the building, he instantly saw Patrick sitting on the reception counter checking his phone.

“Why are you still here?” He asked abruptly, making Patrick squeak in surprise and nearly drop the device in his hand.

“What?” Patrick asked in confusion.

“Why didn’t you go home?” He asked as he sat on the desk next to his friend, the old structure creaking in protest under their shared weight.

“I, uh… I didn’t feel like it. Thought about reworking some vocals on that song we were working on before we left.”

“’Trick, it’s nearly midnight. Go home.”

“I will, I will. Just… not yet.”

Pete stared at him for a short moment, before deciding he didn’t want to go home either. Things never felt the same after tour. He hadn’t worked out what had changed yet, but something always does. “Do you want to go over some lyrics?” He offered as he held out his ratty notebook.

 

The two of them spent the night sorting through half formed thoughts and metaphors that Pete had thought were clever at the time, but now couldn’t remember their context. Patrick however, always had a knack for deciphering the kind of crazy that Pete was. Between the two of them, shit made sense. By the time the sun had started rising, they figured they should go home. With a bit of protest from his stagnant car, Patrick finally gave Pete the lift home he had originally wanted. He dropped the older man at the doorstep of his family home before taking off to head to his own. Pete had bought an apartment for himself a while back but he had forgotten to empty the fridge before he left for tour, so he wasn’t keen on returning. His parents were happy to see him, as they always were. They asked if he was still taking his meds.  _That_ was different. The way they looked at him, like he was a fragile piece of china sitting in an untouched cabinet; waiting to crack. He assured them that he was indeed still taking the Ativans and thankfully they didn’t ask about why he had run out of them so quickly. Their family dog acted like he had never left, at least that felt the same, because the rest of the house didn’t. His father had renovated the kitchen in the time he was away, his mother had changed around the lounge room more times than he could count; it was nothing like he remembered. He ventured up the stairs to his own bed room, which had been untouched in their changes. But that was just as unsettling, because while his room hadn’t changed,  _he_  had. Highschool participation trophies lined his shelves, posters for bands he hadn’t listened to in years hung above his bed, the whole room felt suffocating with nostalgia. This wasn’t him. This whole house wasn’t the Pete he was now. He granted his mother the chance to have dinner with him before he quietly wheeled his brother’s car out of the garage that night and decided to drive anywhere but here.

 

He drove around aimlessly for hours until he found himself at the edge of town, staring at the back of the “Welcome to Chicago!” sign that had far too much enthusiasm for a place like this. Word had gotten out by now that the infamous Pete Wentz was home, and when he finally fished his sidekick out of his pocket he saw that people had been trying to contact him all day. Most of the names were people he barely knew, some were numbers he didn’t even recognise. All people who wanted a piece of the action now that the band looked like it might be going somewhere. People who hadn’t given a shit about him prior to a month ago, prior to when they’d been on the front page of the local paper for being “the kids who made it.” There was a text from Patrick asking if Pete could make it to band practice tomorrow, he replied to that with a firm ‘maybe’ before continuing down the list. One message instantly caught his attention ‘I missed you.’ His breath caught in his throat. Had she really missed him..? And possibly more importantly, had  _he_  missed  _her_? She had dumped him right before they left for tour, saying that it was crazy of him to leave what they had for the band that was going nowhere. Was she lying then or now? The break-up had ended in mutual “I hate you”s and he couldn’t help but feel like these three words on his screen were loaded. A loaded gun pointed straight at his head, waiting for the trigger to be pulled. But that wasn’t happening now. He started the car and drove home, deciding his thoughts were best left ignored and his racing mind treated with a double dose before bed.

 

He spent the week holed up with his family, slowly choking on the feeling of being out of place in his own home. Patrick had asked him to come out to band practice a few times throughout the week, but he ignored the texts. Whenever he felt that buzz in his pocket he hoped that is was someone he didn’t know; if it was someone he didn’t know it meant he didn’t have to deal with them again. The interactions they had were empty of emotion, he didn’t have to follow through with anything he said and both parties were using the other for personal gain, it was purely selfish. Sometimes the conversation provided enough of a distraction that he felt like he didn’t need anything else to forget about the unanswered message in his phone. Nights were hard because it left him by himself, and he didn’t do too well on his own. He had decided over the last few days that he hadn’t missed her. She never tried to call while they were on tour, and neither had he. When she had said those final words to him as he walked out before they left for tour he had felt relief above all else. Those weren’t the signs of missing someone. But if he didn’t miss her, why did he fell like there was a hole where  _something_  was? His thoughts were disrupted one night when he heard a tap at his window. A tree branch maybe? It was followed shortly by another, and another. Until he realised it was someone throwing rocks. He was sure it must be her. He’d ignored her message and she’d gotten impatient. Why had he come back here? Obviously she would find him here, where else would he be? The tapping felt relentless, and he felt with each time the pebbles hit the pane of class that it was negating every pain he went through to avoid thinking about this. About her. He grabbed two blue triangles from the bottle next to his bed and threw his pillow over his ears, opting to continue ignoring it.

 

Eventually being in his house proved to be too much. He had to get out before he did something he’d regret. He had tried to write her letters even, all of them had started with: “To my favourite liar.” He had thought that maybe he could drop it into her mailbox when he knew she would be away from the house, but every time he stood in the driveway, waiting to reach for the mailbox, the rusty pick-up truck across the road in her neighbour’s driveway made him feel sick to his stomach. The family that lived across the road from her had owned that car for as long as he could remember, it was once a bright red and now it had so much rust on it that it looked like it had been painted with it. He’d seen kids pile in and out of it as they went from babies, to toddlers, to teenagers. They didn’t look that much younger than he did now. Their parents dutifully washing it every Sunday morning, which eventually stopped when the car was more oxide than paint. The thoughts of a happy family always made him slip the letter back into his pocket and leave. He couldn’t help but feel like leaving the letter might be blowing the only chance he’d ever have at that. But then if he was left by himself for long enough, he’d work up the anger again to feel like blowing it was exactly what he wanted to do, and the cycle of standing next to the mailbox would start again. Being at home was driving him crazy. So when someone invited him to a party that night he was all too happy to snap up the opportunity of free booze and maybe a girl to distract his thoughts. As he was replying to the text, his sidekick buzzed in his hand. Patrick’s name lighting up the screen.

 

“Pete, where are you? I haven’t heard from you in days. Can you come to practice tonight?” The barrage of questions left Pete’s mind reeling for a moment. He felt like he was about to get caught out for stealing his brother’s car, or standing at girl’s mailboxes in the middle of the night staring at pick-ups.

“Uh… Just at home. Where you left me.” There was silence on the line for a moment.

“What?”

“Where you left me when you brought me home.” He elaborated.

“That was over a week ago, man.”

“Was it?”

“Can you come tonight or not?” Patrick asked again.

“No, I can’t make it tonight.”

“Pete, that’s the third time this week you’ve missed practice.” His friend’s voice echoed through the speaker. He could hear the underlying disappointment in his tone, and maybe a hint of worry.

“I know, I  _know_ , but I really can’t make it. On an unrelated note: are you doing anything tonight?” He asked as he tried to change the topic from his own issues.

“What? You know I’m not, you literally  _just_  cancelled on us.” Patrick answered.

“Awesome, there’s a party tonight down the road from me and I want you to come.” He offered. He could imagine the look on Patrick’s face, he knew full well he was being a dick right now, but maybe if he was able to play this off well enough he might have someone to drive him home when he was too drunk to stand.

 

“Pete… are you telling me… that you cancelled on band practice tonight so that you could go to a party?”

“So that  _we_  could go to a party.” He clarified.

“PETE!” Patrick shouted back.

“’Trick, you’ve done nothing but work since we got signed; you can’t stay holed up in that studio forever. I think it would do you good to get out.” Most of his reasoning was extrapolated from parts of his conversations with the guitarist over the last few days that he could remember. It had seemed lately that all he wanted to talk about was song structure and notes and changing lyrics. Pete had mostly run through any of it on auto-pilot.

“WELL I’VE GOT NOTHING BETTER TO DO NOW, DO I?”

“Good. Then I’ll meet you at mine at 8.” Pete replied as he hung up. He let out a sigh of relief; he was going to the party, he’d meet a girl, he’d get drunk, Patrick would be there as a backup. He’d be free of his thoughts for a night. He couldn’t wait. Getting ready didn’t take him long, people knew who he was, he didn’t have to work on his appearance. He threw a hoodie over what he was already wearing and sat on the front porch, waiting impatiently for Patrick to get there. He could feel that itching under his skin, indicating that his dosage was wearing off. He popped another two pills onto his tongue before swallowing them dry. He was pretty sure that on this bottle somewhere it said not to take with alcohol, he absent mindedly wondered what sort of effect the two would have.

 

By the time Patrick had arrived Pete had already received word that half of the beer was gone. He shoved him into his brother’s car before speeding down to the party. The party was in full swing when they arrived; music blaring from speakers, the sound of girls screaming from the backyard, probably over boys. Or maybe someone had seen him arrive and told them. He beelined around the side of the house, hearing Patrick start a sentence but not waiting for him to finish it before he found where the keg was being kept. He poured himself a cup of beer and downed it in a few mouthfuls before refilling. He wanted to not remember tonight. Or this week. Or the last few years. As he was pouring his second beer a girl came over to stand next to him. She was slender, with skinny jeans and a hoodie pulled down to nearly her knees, he assumed she had stolen it off a boy she used to know. He noted that she seemed his type, before flashing a grin her way and striking up conversation. The night was off to an excellent start.

 

As the drinks flowed and the conversation continued, he knew he was getting somewhere with the girl. He told stories of tour to impress her, stories of how they had girls screaming their names and offering to come back to hotel rooms. His flirting relied on finding a girl who could be convinced that his time was precious, and she was worthy of it. And then making sure she didn’t find out that more than half of his time was spent trying not to break. He was in luck tonight though, because this girl was taking the bait.

“My heart is on my sleeve, doll.” He said, making a gesture to his left wrist for emphasis.

“Oh? So, you expect me to believe you’re not lying?” She asked back, batting her eyelashes at him to try and get him to cave before she did.

“Well, I’m not going home alone.” He winked. His brand of charm was irresistible on anyone who had ever heard anything he’d written. He was pretty sure most girls didn’t even understand half of the lyrics he wrote, but they seemed to like the sentiment, and therefore also like him by extension. Someone called his name behind him, and he mumbled a response before hearing the voice clearer.

“PETE!” Patrick shouted at him.

“What?” Pete asked as he spun around to face him.

“I need your car keys.” He answered as the younger man tugged at his jacket pockets. Part of him worried straight away for the pills in his pocket and his mind raced.

“What? Why? I need them!” He defended as he shoved his shoulder to get him out of his pockets. 

“No, you don’t; you can walk home. I need to leave.” His friend looked panicked. Pete couldn’t help but notice his eyes darting around the party. Or maybe the alcohol was just making his vision blurry.

“Why?” He half-slurred.

“I just do, okay? Just give me your damn keys!” He looked fuming mad as he held his hand out. Pete took a moment to consider this, or, he thought it was a moment. But eventually Patrick gave up. “Argh! You drag me to this party and now you’re gonna make me suffer because of it? Fine!” He added as he stormed off into the night.

 

He turned his attention back to the girl, who didn’t look half as drunk as he felt. They decided to get another drink, and he made sure to make hers with two shots. He continued talking about tour, and about life on the road, mostly just because it was the only life he had lived recently. There was a slight lull in the conversation as he held the cup out to her. He couldn’t remember which he had put the two shots in… “I’m sure everyone missed you.” His stomach dropped at the words and they clashed against the inside of his skull. He didn’t want to think about that now. Suddenly he was dragged into a reality he didn’t want to be in. She wasn’t  _her_ , this party wasn’t her house, this life wasn’t the same without her in it. His sidekick burned a hole into his jeans, feeling red hot against his thigh. Suddenly the thoughts were there, they were all there was and he had to deal with it. He excused himself from the conversation and walked around to the front of the house. Fumbling with his car keys, the vehicle purred to life and he began driving in what felt like the only direction he had ever known. His brain was warring with itself. He wanted to rock up at her doorstep with flowers and apologise for everything he had ever done, while the back of his mind reminded himself that one of the last things she had told him was that she hated him. Drunken thoughts replaced sober ones as quickly as his mind could swap between the two. But by the time he reached her house, the drunken ones had won.

 

He stumbled out of the car, slamming his fist into the front door a few times before it swung open.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She hissed as she stepped outside. She didn’t seem happy to see him.

“I thought you wanted to see me?” He questioned as his eyebrows knitted together. “You missed me?”

“You  _ignored_  me.” She spat back.

“I was busy.” He lied. “I’m famous now.” He added for good measure.

“No, Pete, you’re not. Boys like you are overrated, so save your breath.”

His eyes looked across the street, and he couldn’t see the rusty pick-up that he was so used to seeing. “Hey… what did they do with their car?” He asked as he lost his footing for a moment, leaning against her front porch railing.

“What? They sold it. Leave, Pete!” She ordered.

He was unsure where he’d gone wrong. He stood in the cold night air for a few seconds, taking in the scene before him as the alcohol buzzed through his veins. Slowly he noticed the bruise on the side of her neck, the oversized t-shirt she was wearing that he was almost certain wasn’t one of his. His drunken mind slowly pieced it together. “You’re fucking some other guy.” He observed, the anger not quite catching up with his words yet.

“No, I’m not.” She lied. He could see it written all over her face, in the way she still had her hand on the door knob, waiting to go back in. The anger finally caught up with his brain.

 

“Oh, let’s play this game  _again_  then. Sure. I’m not the desperate type y’know, not like whoever kept you occupied while I was away.  _You_  messaged  _me_.” He felt his volume raising, and he hoped whoever it was in her bedroom could hear him. Knew who he was. Was aware of whose shoes they had to fill.

“There isn’t- wasn’t anyone.”

“The only thing worse than not knowing, is you thinking that I don’t know. And just because I believed every single lie that you said, doesn’t mean that I’m believing that one.” He shouted, taking a step closer to her.

“Just go home, Pete!” She shouted back at him.

“Why the fuck did you send me that text then? Was he out of town too, huh? Can’t go two days without someone in your bed?” The words were slipping out of his mouth before he had time to register what they even meant.

“It doesn’t matter, because I failed to mention that I still hate you.” She said, the venom thick in her tone. With every breath he wished her car had’ve crashed on the way to his house the first time they met. That her body laid there broken in the road, rather than in front of him now.

“You want apologies?” he scoffed. “Don’t hold your breath.” He regretted those words as they fell from his lips. Because part of him hoped she  _would_  hold her breath, until her breathing stopped, forever. “I said I loved you, but I lied.”

Hurt flashed across her features for a moment before she recovered. “Stop burning all of your bridges, just fucking do us all a favour and drive off of them.” She said as she went back inside and slammed the door in his face. He hoped she choked on those words.

 

He punched the door hard enough to feel the warmth in his knuckles before returning to the car and driving home. He stared up at the light coming from the front room of his house, feeling like he knew he should be home. But… where was that? It wasn’t here, it wasn’t on the tour bus, it wasn’t in the studio. When had he ended up without one? He could feel the anxiety building in his chest, constricting around his lungs and making him feel short of breath. The feeling to want to wrap this car around a tree to escape was growing ever stronger. But it wasn’t his car, and he didn’t feel right destroying someone else’s stuff purely to destroy himself. He just needed a stronger dose. Just something to make his brain stop. Something to make things quiet. His mind flicked onto auto-pilot and the next thing he knew, he found himself on the outskirts of town. The thoughts had not slowed, his brain still pounded on the inside of his skull and his skin crawled when he remembered what he’d just done. He went to grab a pill out of his pocket, only to find the bottle empty. When did that happen? Suddenly the feeling of burning sat in the back of his throat, his stomach feeling like it was boiling over. He blacked out, and when he came to could hear a voice in the car next to him. He rolled his head and saw that his phone was in his hand, showing Patrick’s name on the screen. “Hey, buddy!” He slurred.

“Pete?”

“I did something stupid.” His eyes blurred as the burning feeling came back to his throat.

“What? What did you do?”

Pete looked through the windscreen of the car, eventually focusing on the dried red words with too much enthusiasm. “The… the sign. You know that sign? It’s a weird sign.” He mumbled into the phone.

“What sign? Where are you?” Patrick’s panicked voice rang through his ears. The colour blurred slightly and the red became more of a rust. All he could picture was the pickup truck parked in front of her neighbour’s house that looked like it had been painted in rust. Like it had been designed to look as well-worn as he was sure everything in that perfect, nuclear family looked.

“Chicago… is so two years ago…” He laughed tiredly. He could hear Patrick shouting to other people he was with, but he couldn’t make out the word he was saying. His thoughts were running into each other, and he felt like maybe he could sleep his way out of this one. “Hey, Pat… Bury me in memories.”

 

Pete woke up two days later with his throat feeling like it was on fire and that it had been chewed up and spat back out. Everything hurt. He tried to sit up in the bed but his ribs couldn’t take the pressure of bending forwards. His parents were asleep next to his bed, and he could make out a familiar cap sitting over a head of blonde hair and sideburns that was also asleep in the corner of the room. He could see his sidekick sitting on the table next to him. He was able to reach for it without too much pain and a message flicked across the screen: ‘I’m sorry.’ He deleted it. 


End file.
